


the inconvenience of you

by kay_emm_gee



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 07:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14785793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: Clarke was wearing a nightgown when she became queen. The messenger with the black armband arrived shortly after dawn, and it was shortly after his arrival that the sleepy servants, her mother, and the messenger were bowing to her. Her uncle was dead, and she was now the leader of Arkadia.One of the leaders, at least. The real power lay with Parliament. She could advise or suggest, but not rule outright. That was up the lords, which meant it was really up to their leader, Prime Minister Kane.He arrived at her family’s country residence only a few hours after the messenger. With long, sure steps, he strode into her study and gave his condolences and then his congratulations in almost the same breath. The young man with him–dark haired, freckled–nodded to give his wordless acknowledgement of the circumstances.{ a bellarke au based on victoria series }





	the inconvenience of you

**i.**

Clarke was wearing a nightgown when she became queen. The messenger with the black armband arrived shortly after dawn, and it was shortly after his arrival that the sleepy servants, her mother, and the messenger were bowing to her. Her uncle was dead, and she was now the leader of Arkadia.

One of the leaders, at least. The real power lay with Parliament. She could advise or suggest, but not rule outright. That was up the lords, which meant it was really up to their leader, Prime Minister Kane.

He arrived at her family’s country residence only a few hours after the messenger. With long, sure steps, he strode into her study and gave his condolences and then his congratulations in almost the same breath. The young man with him–dark haired, freckled–nodded to give his wordless acknowledgement of the circumstances.

Without another moment’s pause, Kane began lecturing her about what the crown’s next steps should be: how soon she should move into the city palace, what staff she should bring or dismiss, and who she might consider for her private secretary. She clenched her jaw in irritation and glanced at her mother, who frowned and shook her head.

Clarke hesitated for only a breath before she defied her mother’s directive and interrupted Kane. “While I am sure your counsel is excellent, Lord Kane, if I feel I need assistance during my transition or afterwards, I will ask for it.”

Kane’s mouth hung slightly open for a beat, and she heard her mother draw in a deep breath. She would have wanted Clarke far more polite with her deferral, but Clarke was queen now. There was no requirement for her to tiptoe or speak demurely. Kane was her political equal, and he’d best get used to viewing her as one.

As a point in his favor, the prime minister straightened, and seem to regard her with more caution. She even might venture that there was a bit of respect glinting in his eyes.

“Now is when you  _should_  be asking for it.” Clarke narrowed her eyes at the younger man who had now moved forward. He paused, then added tightly, “Your Majesty.”

“Lord Bellamy Blake,” Kane added quickly. The introduction only made the tension worse, because Clarke recognized the name. The firebrand, they called him around her court. Blake was a radical member of the House, famous for relentlessly pushing reform and unabashedly chastising the rest of Parliament.  _Young upstart,_  they grumbled.  _Arrogant bastard_ , they sneered. Clarke did not trust the opinions of old men, but neither did she appreciate Blake’s brashness in challenging her position.

She had been raised to be queen.

She knew what she was doing.

“I don’t remember asking for your counsel either.”

Blake’s eyes flashed at her dismissive tone. “Do you know which lords to trust with the interests of your subjects, or which will ignore their plights? Do you know who or what stands in the way of passing the bills currently in Parliament? Do you even know  _which_ billsare–”

“I have been queen for all of four hours,” Clarke interrupted hotly. “But even I know that a lord who doesn’t treat their monarch with respect won’t have much of a political future ahead of him.”

“You haven’t earned my respect, and you don’t have the power to–”

“Blake!” Kane grabbed his arm.

“Apologies,” Blake offered with little actual sentiment.

Clarke was fuming. Her mother’s gentle hand on her shoulder did not do much to calm her, but she managed a nod of dismissal to the two lords. Blake stalked out of the room immediately, with Kane following slowly and only after a pleading, apologetic glance.

“He will be trouble,” her mother offered quietly.

“I can handle him,” Clarke declared. “Him, and Kane. I can handle all of them.”

She knew what she was doing, after all, and now, because she had all but told Blake and Kane that, she would have to make sure she didn’t prove herself wrong.

* * *

 

**ii.**

Clarke stared at the wrinkled hand in her own, panic rising in her chest. The thin, grey-haired lord kneeling in front of her waited, and waited. His smile was polite, but tight, and she could do nothing but smile back. He had kissed her hand, and now that his duty was done, she must do her part in acknowledging him. She could not, however, as she did not know who he was.

He might be Lord Kirkwood, or Lord Bracken, or Lord Renville. She could recite the name of every nobleman in the court that was now hers flawlessly. However, it apparently had not occurred to her, nor her mother, nor her governess, that knowing the names was of absolutely no use if she could not correctly match those names to faces. In her ten years as heir to the throne, she had only come to court a handful of times, and never to the House of Lords. Anger surged over the panic. The laws about women and politics in Arkadia were unbearably stupid, and not for the first time Clarke promised herself that she would work relentlessly to change them.

At this moment, however, whichever lord was kneeling in front of her needed to be addressed. She dared not look to her mother for help. Lady Griffin already felt that Clarke was too young and inexperienced to take the throne; she needed to appear undaunted by this, lest she risk reopening the argument for a regent again. The lord before her was no help. He just stared at her gravely, assessingly. He, and the rest, could not find her wanting–not now, not when she had only just begun her reign.

Someone stepped onto the dais to her left, and then she heard a low whisper. “Lord Wallace.”

“Lord Wallace,” she announced loudly.

The kneeling man inclined his head with just the right amount of respect, then rose. The next man stepped forward, knelt, and kissed her hand. Another name was whispered in her ear. And so on, and so on, and eventually the tightness in her chest eased. It wasn’t until the last lord had retreated that she dared glance to her left.

When she saw Lord Blake standing next to her throne, she almost lost her composure. After their sharp words two weeks ago, she had not expected him of all people to come to her rescue. As she struggled to keep her expression serene, Blake looked out over the murmuring crowd. She curled her fingers into the stiff, charcoal grey folds of her dress.

“Thank you.” The words slipped out, entirely unbidden but also entirely sincere.

That finally caught his attention. Blake turned to look at her, and the surprise in his eyes was evident. Clarke chanced a careful smile. The tense lines around his mouth softened slightly, and he nodded at her–in approval, or simply in acknowledgement, she was not sure. Even so, she nodded back, then turned her attention back to her lords, spine straighter and head held the slightest bit higher.

* * *

 

**iii.**

The hall was silent behind her, but nonetheless Clarke could hear ghosts of laughter from the crowd. Her cheeks heated in embarrassment. She clutched the rope tighter with her gloved hands, sweat soaking into the fabric. Though she willed herself to give it one more tug, she could not. The whole court had assembled to view the first portrait of their new monarch, but they were still waiting to see the blasted painting because she did not have the strength to pull the curtain off.

The whispers about her poor judgement when it had come to wrongly accusing Sir Murphy of treason had barely died down. Now she would face snide remarks that a woman who had not the strength to move a piece of fabric would not have the fortitude to mobilize an army, or advise a parliament, or rule a nation. She had faced enough of that sort of criticism in her childhood; she could not,  _would_ not bear it as queen.

A throat cleared, the sound closer than she expected, and she started. A familiar hand gripped the rope above hers, and she frowned stubbornly.

“Thank you, but I will manage.”

“Your Majesty.” Lord Blake managed to say so much with just two words.

“I am the Queen of Arkadia,” Clarke countered. “I do not need someone to do the heavy lifting for me.”

“I was not suggesting otherwise.”

The amused tone of his voice finally made her look at him. There was no judgement in his expression, and the humor in his eyes was not smug or mean.

“I could stand here all day if I wanted to,” she said, not the least bit petulantly. “And they would have to stand with me.”

“If that’s the kind of leader you want to be.”

“I will not be a weak leader either!”

“Your Majesty, it is only a painting.”

“No, it is not.”

His smile faded, as if he could suddenly read her thoughts and see her deepest fears. After taking in a deep breath, he admitted, “No, I suppose it is not. So, if you will not allow me to do this for you, will you allow me to assist you?”

Clarke considered the offer for a heartbeat, then nodded. “We will do it together.”

“Together.”

She tightened her grip, pulled, and he followed her lead. One more sharp tug, and the curtain fell in a swift rustle and landed on the tile floor with muffled thumb. Clarke turned around to face the court and was greeted by pleased gasps and applause. Lord Kane smiled widely, and her mother did as well, though with wide eyes. Apparently she had recognized her daughter’s handiwork immediately, though no one else in the crowd seemed to. That pleased Clarke, that she was able to receive accolade for her artistic talent without any accompanying criticism for the inappropriateness of a monarch, and a woman at that, painting her own portrait.

She had forgotten that Blake was still at her side, but then he leaned over and murmured, “You have outdone yourself, Your Majesty.”

Her breath caught. He had recognized her work. She looked at him questioningly, but he was looking at her portrait, applauding with the rest. He said nothing more about it, leaving her to wonder how the labor party’s political firebrand knew so much about her without her knowing even the slightest bit about him.

So she watched him the rest of the afternoon, and for many afternoons and evenings after that. She interacted with Prime Minister Kane frequently, and wherever Kane was, so too was Blake. Clarke watched him talk with other lords at the palace, with the gentry in the parks, with businessmen and shopkeepers and children when they rode through the streets on her daily outing. Blake was blunt and unrelenting and honest. He impressed or irritated politicians, depending on their opinions and his mood. He had thoughtful discussions with military men, and his advice to merchants was taken seriously. The more she watched, the more she realized he affected everyone he met very strongly. Some disliked him, some admired him, but no one walked away from a conversation with Lord Blake feeling indifferent.

It made Clarke just the slightest bit envious. She had not yet learned how to do that–how to move people. She did not know how to convince or inspire or incite. She still relied on patience, on subtlety. Neither minds nor laws could be changed in that way, however, and so Clarke decided that watching him wasn’t enough.

She needed Blake’s help to learn to lead, and someday soon, she would figure out how to ask him for it.

* * *

 

**iv.**

Clarke clasped her hands tighter behind her back as Kane and her mother argued. She did not join them, just continued starting out of the window. Raindrops running crooked down the warped pane blurred the city– _her_  city–below. Everything was a gray smudge: ashen clouds looming over stoney streets that wound between charcoal buildings. Clarke could hardly make out any figures moving below, but whether that was due to the rain, or the sickness, she did not know.

“No!” Her mother exclaimed, interrupting the prime minister yet again. “No, that is not acceptable.”

“Your Royal Highness, there is no better manner of containing its spread–”

“ _Parliament_  believes there is no better way.”

Clarke sighed and stopped listening again. They had been bickering for the good part of an hour; neither one seemed any more inclined to budge than when they had started. She knew the decision of how to advise Parliament on combating the epidemic that held her city in its grips was ultimately hers, but the enormity of the task was daunting, almost paralyzing. It was so much easier to watch the rain and imagine it washing her city clean of all infection.

She shivered.  _If only it were that easy._

When she turned towards the fire to warm herself, she noticed Blake was staring at the flames. After only a moment’s hesitation, she quietly walked over to stand next to the chair he was slumped in. Continuing to ignore both her mother and Kane–who paid no attention to her or Blake–she took in a deep breath.

“What do you believe I should do?”

He flicked a glance at her, considering. “I think you should listen to Kane.”  
  
“I have been. And now I want to hear your thoughts.”

“I do not have any thoughts on this.”

She snorted. “I would bet every crown the monarchy owns that you have never  _not_  had a thought on any situation that you came across.”

“Your advisors at court won’t like it.”

“You are one of my advisors, and do not even try telling me you don’t like your own ideas. I’ve heard what you’re like in sessions.”

He seemed to be fighting a smile. “The  _rest_  of Parliament will detest it.”

“For love of all that is holy, will you just  _tell_  me what you are thinking already?”

Her impatience seemed to startle a rough laugh out of him, even if it could barely be heard above the crackle of the flames in front of them. Blake considered her carefully for one more moment before explaining his idea.

He hadn’t been wrong; the lords would thunder louder than the storm outside when they heard the plan  _When_ they heard it, not  _if_ , because Clarke knew she would take Blake’s advice even before he finished speaking.

Kane and her mother, however, went completely silent when she announced her intentions.

“I’m not sure that is wise, Your Majesty,” the prime minister said politely but firmly.

“Parliament will accuse you of overstepping your bounds,” her mother warned. “The crown is not to financially support generation, implementation, or execution of governmental policy. You know this. They will see it as a breach of protocol, possibly even call into question your ability to make sound decisions as the monarch.”

“And yet I will do it anyways,” Clarke replied with a serene smile. “I am the Queen of Arkadia, and I will not let my citizens suffer when I can help them merely by opening the door to my treasury.”

 _And all of Parliament can hang if they value their rules over the lives of our people_ , she thought. With a glance at Blake, she caught him staring at her, and something flickered in his eyes that made her flush with pleasure.

* * *

 

**v.**

As a servant glided by, Clarke lifted a glass of champagne from his tray. It sparkled in the dim candlelight, and the large sip she took refreshed her. The room was overly warm, the guests overly judgemental, and the music overly dull. There had only been one waltz in the evening so far, and Prince Finn had swept her into it before she could protest.

Luckily she had avoided him since then, but the enthusiastically amorous foreign royal wasn’t her only problem tonight. Her birthday ball was less of a celebration of her twentieth year of life, and more of a convenient venue for her lords and ladies to accost her about this problem or that. All Clarke wanted to do was dance, just for this one night. Instead, she found herself stealing moments of peace and sips of champagne between long conversations that would have no fruitful outcome for her or the supplicant.

“Is that your fourth glass? Fifth?”

Clarke smiled over the rim of her glass before answering Bellamy. “Third.”

“Ah.”

She glanced at him carefully. He was looking out of the corner of his eye, laughter hidden in the corners of his mouth.

“Did my mother send you over?” He raised his eyebrows skeptically, and she huffed a laugh. “She warned me not to enjoy myself too much tonight.”

“I do not know if a single lord in Parliament whom would accuse Your Majesty of favoring pleasure too much. In fact, I would guess they wished you were more inclined towards entertainment, so that you would not stand in their way as often.”

“Are you saying that you don’t think that I am amusing enough? That I am  _boring_?”

“Not at all.” The reply was so quick, that it took her aback. It seemed to take him aback as well, and he struggled to find his next words. It was an unusual sight, as Bellamy was never at such a loss.

She decided to give him a reprieve. “So did you come over here to tell me to stop drinking, or for another purpose?”

“I came to ask if you would like to dance.”

“I would.” The lack of hesitation on her part startled her into stumbling for more words. Her lips parted, but she had nothing more to say. That one word had said it all for her; it had told Bellamy everything.

Though she wasn’t sure if he believed it. His expression was unreadable, though she thought she caught a glimmer of delighted relief in his dark eyes. Finally, a ghost of a smile formed, and he held out his hand. Clarke tipped her head up boldly and gave him a gloved hand in return. They walked out onto the dance floor without any hesitancy, without any shame.

The music started just as they turned to face one another, and she flushed. It was a waltz, the melody sweet and slow and aching. As she inhaled, Bellamy stepped towards her, as if pulled in simply by the rhythm of her breathing. He held out his hand again, and she took it again. Her other arm she lifted, and he smoothly slid his around to the middle of her back. As the music quickened, Clarke let her fingers rest lightly on his shoulder, and then they began to move together.

She quickly discovered that Bellamy was as sure-footed in a ballroom as on the Parliament floor. They fell into step with one another so easily. As they turned round and round, she felt herself grow warmer, dizzier. She had been dancing since her play-pretend days, and had waltzed a dozen times, but it had never felt quite like this. For the first time, dancing felt...dangerous. And not because everyone in her court was whispering about her choice of partner, or because Finn was glaring at them, or because it was wrong to dance this dance with a controversial lord like Bellamy.

This dance felt dangerous because she could feel  _him_ –his warmth in front of her, the confident pressure of his hand on her lower back, the soft way his thumb brushed over her fingers. Bellamy was all around her, as the candlelight and music and feel of him so close to her made everything else melt away. As they spun around the ballroom, her head began to spin with all kinds of thoughts, of things that might but maybe never could be.

When the music waned, those thoughts did not. Her skirts swished just once more against his legs as they halted, but Clarke’s world kept spinning as she looked up at him. His lips were parted, breaths coming slightly heavy and uneven. Something warm settled deep in her stomach, then tendriled out until her skin felt aflame. Bellamy slowly stepped back, but he didn’t take his gaze from hers. As the other guests clapped their appreciation for the musicians, Clarke just stood with Bellamy in the middle of the dance floor, breathless and heart pounding in her chest.

The spell holding them together only broke when a livelier song began to play. It startled the both of them. Clarke opened her mouth to speak, but Bellamy was quicker. He gave a short, sudden bow before walking away without a single word. Stunned, Clarke found herself unable to move, confused and surrounded by pairs of dancers twirling by. Heat bloomed on her cheeks. The room blurred as the champagne and the dance with Bellamy went to her head.

“Clarke.”

Someone guided her back to the sides of the ballroom gently. It wasn’t until they were in the hall that she realized it was her mother. She gave Clarke a worried look that also managed to convey disapproval and pity as well. Recoiling, Clarke looked away into the mirror to her right. Ignoring the red in her cheeks, she tucked away a loose curl and straightened her crown.

“You are choosing a treacherous path,” her mother finally said.

“It was just a dance.”

Skeptical silence from her mother stretched and filled the room, but she said nothing more.

Clarke took a deep breath, shaking off her own uncertainty. Turning on her heel, she faced her mother and the unspoken warnings she was barely holding in. “It  _was_ just a dance, as was the one I had with Prince Finn, and as will be the ones I will have next with the other lords I’m obligated to lavish attention on tonight. The court may chatter and gossip about my dance partners as much as they like, but they will soon move onto the next salacious thing. I have no intention of curbing enjoyment of my own life to keep their tongues from wagging.”

“But that is exactly the problem. You and Lord Blake–” her mother paused, thoughtful. Then quietly, she added, “I haven’t seen you smile like that in a very long time.”

Clarke swallowed. “I’ve had too much champagne, that’s all.”

Her mother grimaced sadly. Then she took Clarke’s hands in hers, squeezing as she pulled her in close. She dropped a kiss on her forehead before whispering, “Just be careful, daughter. Remember where the loyalty of your heart must truly lie.”

Her mother’s gaze drifted briefly to the crown as she pulled away.

Forcing a tight, confident smile, Clarke dipped her head in acknowledgement. From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of light off the jewels in her crown. It was that sight–and not the brightness of Bellamy’s eyes–that she kept in mind as she swept back into the ballroom and reached for another glass of champagne.

* * *

 

**vi.**

Clarke did not even wait for the carriage to come to a full stop before she stepped out onto the country house’s drive. Bellamy had missed five Parliament sessions; she was not going to wait another five minutes to find out why he was neglecting not only his duties, but his calling. He  _lived_  for the heat of debate and the rush of adrenaline when he won the floor argument. It was unsettling for him to vanish from that world–and hers–so completely.

That was why she was all the way out here, at his country house. His residence in town was vacant when she had called there, and she knew he would not be found at his family seat. While the property and title of his mother’s second husband had been bestowed upon Bellamy–an uncommon and controversial decision, but still a legal one–he did not spend much time there, not after his sister had eloped with her lover to Spain. It was too hard on him.

So here Clarke was, at the residence Bellamy leased for when Parliament was not in session. Arching her neck, she took in the modest building. It suited him, even if it was nowhere near grand enough to suit others with similar standing. Honestly, it made her like the place even more.

He was in the study, of course. The butler led her right in, announcing her with pride. She did not miss the few seconds of hesitation before Bellamy stood from his desk to greet her, nor the tension in his shoulders as they walked out into the garden.

“This was a long way for you to come, Your Majesty,” he said, stepping onto the gravel path.

“The same could be said for you. It’s not a reasonable travel distance for someone who is a member of Parliament, I’d say. Which is why, I am assuming, you have been absent from sessions lately.”

“I have...I needed a break.”

Clarke scoffed. “The only thing you need less than a break is dancing lessons.”

She bit her tongue at her hasty words. Too much. She was revealing too much, too easily. When she looked at Bellamy from the corner of her eyes, she saw that he was flushed.

“Kane has our agenda handled,” he replied evasively.

“But to leave, now? When we are so close?”

“I haven’t abandoned my duties entirely.”

“I’m just surprised you don’t want to see it through, to the end.”

“I apologize for disappointing you, Your Majesty.” The words were sudden and sharp, bordering on bitter. “But as I told you when we first met, I am not a lord who seeks to please the crown. I answer only to those who have no voice for themselves.”

“You haven’t–that’s not what I meant!”

“You came here to tell me off, did you not?”

“You’re not a child in need of scolding!”

“Then don’t treat me like one!”

Clarke halted abruptly by a rose bush, staring. Bellamy was slightly out of breath, glaring at her with a clenched jaw.

In response, she looked away, tipping her head. Then she said quietly, calmly, “I came here simply because I was  _worried_  about you. I have not seen you in weeks, not since–”

“I know.”

When she looked back at Bellamy, his expression had softened. The tempest of emotions in his eyes made her stomach flutter, in pleasure and in warning. She didn’t know what to make of it. Swaying closer to him, she fiddled with the hem of her short gloves.

“I have...I have been wondering where you are. Why you left.”

He let out the ghost of a bitter laugh. “Your Majesty, I think you know why.”

“Call me Clarke.” She turned her head to the side, just barely, and stared up at the grey sky. “Please.”

Then she felt the soft brush of his warm fingertips under her chin. Clarke let him turn her face back to his, which was now only a few breaths away. Her pulse raced, and she felt heat bloom rapidly across her cheeks.

“Please,” she whispered again.

He leaned in, and in the same moment, she closed the rest of the distance between their lips. It was a cautious kiss, one of testing and tasting and trying. His large hand cupped her jaw, and under her own palm, she felt his chest rise and fall in an unsteady rhythm. As Bellamy tilted his head and asked for more, she let herself fall into the kiss entirely. She could almost feel the heat of the candles and hear the lilting of the music from the night of the ball. His hand slid down her neck, and his trailing fingers left goosebumps in their wake. Her world spun, and spun, and spun, and it was only the slightest pressure of his thumb running up her collarbone that righted its axis once again.

She pulled away, almost gasping for breath.

“Clarke…”

When she looked back up at Bellamy, his eyes were glazed over. Through parted lips, he murmured her name again. She hovered, not knowing whether to pull farther away or even closer. He hesitated as well, the tension stretching out between them until Clarke couldn’t stand it any longer.

“You need come back,” she said slowly. “I need you to come back.”

She watched him swallow, tightly. He reached up and covered her hand, still on his chest, with his own. He squeezed it briefly and closed his eyes.

“If the queen commands,” Bellamy replied softly.

His tone held no derision or sense of mocking, but Clarke felt her heartstrings twinge with unease.

“I have not commanded anything of you, not yet,” she replied, trying to sound lighthearted. “Would you obey, if I did?”

“That is precisely the problem.”

Clarke pulled her hand out from under his, then pressed it against her stomach to stop the somersaulting sensation growing there. “What do you mean?”

The look he gave her was rueful, almost pitying. “That you have to ask that question means you don’t understand how badly this will go, for both of us.”

“You asked me not to treat you like a child, so do not treat me like one.”

“Clarke, you can’t be that naïve.”

“I am  _not_  naïve.”

“Then what did you think would come of you chasing me out here? Of–”

“I did not chase you!”

“Of us kissing?”

She had no answer, entirely lost as to what had his jaw ticking again. Bellamy glanced at the heavens tiredly, as if looking for answers, or maybe divine intervention.

He said, “The queen of Arkadia cannot be courted by a Parliament member, and a Parliament member cannot court the queen of Arkadia.”

“Why not?” Her voice sounded too small and wounded for her liking.

“It is just not done. And you will not give up your crown, and I will not give up my place in government.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “That is just how it is.”

Clarke was lost–lost for words, lost for something to contradict his statement. The tension stretched between them, and she swore she heard it snap when Bellamy suddenly stepped backwards.

He opened his eyes, and there was not even a shadow of emotion in them. His expression was blank, his eyes empty.

“I’ll return as soon as I have finished my business here.” He said the words without quite looking at her. “You have my word.”

He stepped away from her, one hand behind his back, the other stretched out in a clear gesture for them to begin walking back towards the house. The dismissal poured over Clarke like cold rain, but she had no other choice to head right into the storm brewing around the two of them. So, with a rigid but acquiescing dip of her head, she stepped forward. Bellamy followed right at her side.

Neither of them said another word. His only farewell to her was a clipped bow before she climbed into her carriage. And as she pulled away, she refused to turn around to see if he watched her leave. Her head knew better. It was what bore the crown, and its legacy, and it was what she chose to obey to in this moment.

Even as her stubborn, traitorous heart begged her not to.

* * *

 

**vii.**

As she waved to the crowd from her horse, Clarke kept smiling. She was very good at it, after a childhood as the tentative heir to the throne and a tumultuous first year as queen.  _Smile, and wave, and everyone might believe that everything is indeed alright._  It had gotten her through more than one crisis; she would have to trust that it would this time as well.

However, the last few weeks had been a challenging test of even her well-developed ability to feign contentment. Bellamy had returned to town, but she wished he had not. He was present in Parliament, and their paths crossed when Kane came to update her on the status of various bills and whatnot, but he was as distant as ever. Having him so close, and yet so far out of her reach, was almost unbearable. Clarke missed him, everything about him–his camaraderie, his wit, his kindness, his laughter, his habit of getting under her skin. Now he was always only in her periphery. Behind, around, adjacent to–but never  _with_  her. Clarke had not realized how lonely sitting on that throne could be until Bellamy was no longer beside her.

Today, he rode at the rear left of her retinue. Each time she turned to smile at the crowd, she caught the merest glimpse of him. It set her, and her mount, on edge. The filly danced beneath her, and Bellamy danced in and out of her vision, but she still kept smiling.

As they turned onto the last leg of her usual route, Clarke sighed in relief. Not too much longer until she could drop the mask that she wore out in public. Her subjects lined the straight shot of road to the palace, however, so she raised her hand higher. She would give them all she had, when they were calling her name and waving their flags so cheerfully. They deserved her attention and appreciation, at the very least. It was only just another handful of minutes, after all.

As the cheers of the crowd intensified, her horse began to prance nervously. She looked down for a moment to settle her, and that was when the gunshot rang out.

Her mount shuddered, whinnying in fear, and Clarke flattered herself against her neck. Another loud crack of a gun echoed through the din of her guards yelling and the crowd screaming. Her horse reared. She clung to the saddle’s pommel, gasping as she clenched her thighs to keep her balance. As soon her horse’s hooves hit the cobblestones once more, however, she bounced out of the saddle. Her stomach lurched, she saw a flash of grey clouds, and a scream tore from her.

Then there was a hard jerk at her wrists, and she was caught from falling off completely. Clarke looked up, right into Bellamy’s terror-filled eyes. With a heave, he pulled her up over her saddle and twisted her until she sat sideways in front of him on his mount.

Reaching over, he slapped her horse on its rump, and she took off like a shot. Bellamy followed suit. He slipped an arm around her waist, clutching her tightly to him. Even so, she had to fist her hands in his mount’s mane to keep steady. They raced for the palace as terrified screams and angry shouts swirled around them. Her vision narrowed to nothing but the gates ahead of them, the edges of her sight blurring brown and grey.

Her pulse rushed so loudly in her ears that she barely heard the third shot.

She did hear Bellamy’s cry of pain, however, and felt how the arm around her went slack. Fear gripped her, and she made a choking noise of worry. So badly she wanted to turn and find where he had been hit, but that would only prove deadly for them both. So she grit her teeth, pressed her heels into the horse’s side, and held on.

As soon as they tore into the palace courtyard, she was screaming for help. Guards were there immediately, but they were extending their hands to  _her_ , lifting  _her_  down, making sure  _she_  was safe and unharmed.

“No, no!” She cried furiously, fighting them off. “It’s Bellamy! Look to Bellamy, he’s been shot! Please, help him!”

Her guards responded just in time to catch Bellamy as he slumped and toppled out of the saddle. As they carried him inside, Clarke followed right at their heels. A few guards try to stop her, but she pushed them aside.

She would not leave him now.

They hauled him up the stairs, leaving a trail of dripping blood in their wake. Clarke felt her stomach roll as she stepped over the crimson stains on the white marble.  _Someone will have to clean that up_ , she thought in a daze as they raced through the hallways to the living quarters.  _I must tell someone to clean that up._

Soon enough he was laid out on a bed. And right after that, her mother– _where had her mother come from?_ –attempted to usher her from the room.

“No, I will stay,” she argued stubbornly, unable to take her eyes off of Bellamy’s semi-conscious figure.

“Clarke, it is not–you should not be here.” Her mother glanced nervously towards the bed. They were supporting Bellamy into a sitting position and strippping off his shirt. He groaned loudly in pain as they moved his injured arm around.

Clarke turned to her mother and said fiercely, “I  _will stay._ ” She blinked away tears. “I will stay. He...he save my life. I will not leave him.”

The caution in her mother’s expression melted into a dozen shades of concern. She framed Clarke’s face with her hands. “Are you alright?”

Clarke just stared, mouth trembling. She was not hurt, but her could not stifle the sick feeling blooming in her chest. Immediately, her mother pulled her into a tight hug and murmured quiet comforts under her breath.

“I will be fine,” Clarke cried quietly into her shoulder. “I will be fine, as long as he is fine.”

It was a long few hours as the doctor examined Bellamy. Clarke stayed the entire time, impropriety be damned. It was painful to hear him cry out as they extracted the bullet. The sheer amount of obscenities, however, that poured out of him during the procedure made her let out a choked, tearful laugh or two. The physician himself complimented Bellamy on his vocabulary. Clarke made a note to have him teach her some of those phrases when he was better.

 _When_ , she whispered to herself.  _When, when, when._

After the bullet had been removed, and he was bandaged, Dr. Jackson gave him a large cup of sleeping tonic and informed her that he would be back the next day to check in on the patient.

“It is not a trivial wound, Your Majesty, but I have seen men live through far worse,” he assured her.

Clarke mustered up a weak but grateful smile at the doctor, but her gaze drifted back to the bed.

“He will fall asleep soon, and he needs all the rest he can get.” His voice was quiet, respectful, but knowing. “But he will be alert for a few moments more, if you need a word.”

Then the physician slipped away, and so did her mother, and Clarke did not even realize she was alone in the room until the door clicked shut behind her. Taking in a deep, unsteady breath, she walked up to the bed.

Bellamy was watching her through sleepy, half-lidded eyes.

“You’re alright?” He murmured.

“Thanks to you,” she murmured. Her throat closed up, and it took her a moment to have enough control to speak again. “Foolish as it was, doing what you did.”

“It was foolish to save the life of my monarch?”

“It was foolish to put your life at risk for mine!” She winced at how loudly her voice echoed in the large, vacant room.

He did not respond, nor laugh. Bellamy just looked at her. Clarke looked right back, openly and honestly. As she sat on the bed, she did not break their gazes, but instead let him see everything: her fears, her guilt, her regret.

Her hope, her apologies, her dreams. 

_Her love._

His hand twitched, as if reaching for her. The medication had him in its grip, however. So Clarke reached over, laying her palm over his fingers. She squeezed, telling him everything he couldn’t say with words.

“Thank you,” she finally managed to say. “Thank you for saving my life. But if you ever do anything as reckless as putting yourself in the line of fire again–”

“You’ll remove me from Parliament?” Bellamy managed a drowsy half-grin. “I can think of some members who might not object to that.”

She shook her head and let out a sigh that was almost a laugh. Almost, but not quite, because there was still too much worry threading through her. Sobering, she brushed her thumb over his hand. “I need you, Bellamy,” she murmured. “I can’t lose you. I want you–by my side, in my life. And I do not want either of us to give up parts of us to be together. I do not know how we will do it, but we will. Because I love you.”

“I love you too,” he replied. Then he paused, looking a little dazed. “You’re going to have to say that again.”

She opened her mouth to do just that, but he shook his head. “Not now. I meant when I am not about to be stricken unconscious by whatever damned concoction that physician forced me to take.”

This time, Clarke managed a weak laugh. “I will tell you again. And again and again and again. For as long as you live. Which, if I have my way, will be for a long, long time.”

“Promise me that you won’t change your mind while I’m asleep?”

“I promise.”

Bellamy sighed contentedly at that and closed his eyes. “Good. But what are we going to do about the court? And Parliament. None of them will approve of, or even allow us to–”

Clarke shushed him. “We will figure something out.”

“Can we figure it out later?” His voice was barely a whisper.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

She raised their clasped hands to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. He smiled, briefly, and then slipped into sleep.

Clarke stayed right by his side, with her hand in his, just listening to him breathe. And as she listened to him breathe, a miracle in its own right, she began to plan.

* * *

 

**+i.**

Shouts echoed in the hall outside of her bedroom, and Clarke spun around from her mirror. As she moved, a pin dug into her side. The shouting continued, and then there was banging on her door. Her servants looked startled, and she simply shrugged. As queen, one had to expect chaotic interruptions in her daily routine. Adjusting her voluminous white skirts, she stepped off the pedestal. The seamstresses called out for her to be careful to not dislodge the alterations.

It was only a few days until the wedding, after all. There would not be time for another dress fitting.

Just as she reached the doors, they flung open. Bellamy stood there, panting. His face was flushed, and he was smiling broadly.

“We have the votes,” he exclaimed.

“What?” Clarke gasped. They had been struggling to assemble the necessary Parliament votes to commute sentences for all Arkadians who had been convicted under the age of eighteen.

“We have the votes!”

He let out a triumphant cry, then picked her up and spun her around. She laughed into his shoulder, joy welling up inside her until she was overflowing with it. And she was still laughing when he set her down, gripped her head in his hands, and kissed her. Even as she heard her maids titter nervously at the outpouring of affection, she gave herself over to the embrace. They had worked for months to right this terrible wrong, and finally victory was in their grasp. The vote would take place shortly after the wedding, and it was the best present she could ever have asked for.

They still had much work to do, and many more wrongs in Arkadia to correct, but this was a very good start.

Bellamy pulled away, his eyes still dancing with delight. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important. As soon as I got the news, I had to come tell you straight away.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond before glancing around the room, then down at her. He took her in, all of her: the white dress, the arranged hair, the pinned flowers. She grinned as realization dawned on his face.

“Oh.” It was a quiet, wonderous sort of sound he let out, and she stifled a laugh at the shock in his expression.

“Nothing too important,” she replied sweetly.

“You look–”

She cut him off with three fingers pressed to his lips. “Tell me in a few days.”

He nodded, unable to keep from smiling. Then he leaned forward, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against hers.

“Just a few more days,” he whispered.

Clarke sighed happily in agreement. Just a few more days until a lifetime together.

In comparison, not a long time to wait at all.


End file.
